“That is true. Also, I am not.”
“Not?”
“A mind reader,” she said. “Or a god. Or…” she held both palms up and wiggled them, as if she had eggs between her fingers, “…whatever you might think I am. Do we really have to do this?”
Before I could answer, she said, “Yes, I know we do, it’s just. Well, let’s get this rolling. Pop. Don’t be late for your cue.” She pointed one crooked finger at me and closed one eye, as if she was looking down a scope.
“I am not going to go anywhere—” The rest of what I was going to say—I won’t be late because I plan to never see you again. I think you better back the hell off and leave me and mine alone—was cut short.
She was gone.
There was no woman. There was no rattle of beads. There was no song of woods and winds. Just a lonely dirt road jagging out into the dark of the night.
I scanned the fields, the trees, kneeled and inspected the dirt. No footprints except my own.
The cry of a barn owl, eerie and hawk-like, echoed against the stars. I tipped my eyes skyward, and caught the watercolor smudge of feathers, white, soft, and a flash of gold heading west, away from dawn’s horizon.
CHAPTERTWO
“She’s a shapeshifter?” Lu asked.
“I didn’t say that.” My head was pounding, the vision—or whatever that meeting had been with the woman—leaving behind a headache I couldn’t shake.
“She turned into an owl,” Lula said.
“Owls eat rabbits,” Abbi noted.
“I didn’t say she turned into an owl.”
“But they do.” Abbi looked up at me, dark eyes wide and sincere. “I like them anyway. They have moon faces.”
Abbi sat on a bench inside the little gazebo they’d set up in what was now a park, right in the middle of a bunch of old buildings in Galena, Kansas. It used to be a garage and gas station, but once Howard “Pappy” Litch had passed on, they’d knocked the garage down and turned it into a park to honor the avid local historian.
It was a good choice, and a good place. I think Pappy would be pleased to see it.
He’d also be pleased the Streetcar Station Coffee shop was right across the street, and that they made the best damn homemade cinnamon rolls too.
Abbi’s mouth and cheeks were still sticky with cinnamon and frosting. She’d followed the pastry with a fussy bite of scrambled egg, then quickly passed those to Hado and Lorde, who were lounging on the gazebo’s wooden floor.
Lu tore off a bit of pastry, popped it in her mouth, then leaned back against the bench, licking the sugar off the tips of her fingers, one by one. The early morning shadows couldn’t extinguish her copper hair, pale smooth skin, or tiger eyes. I could spend a lifetime looking at her.
Had already done so.
Her lips ticked up at the corner, a secret smile just for me.
“Come sit down.” She patted the bench seat next to her. “Go through the important parts again. Explain how she wasn’t a shapeshifter.”
I was leaning against the gazebo railing, looking out at the empty road. Route 66 elbows into Kansas for a very short thirteen miles before shaking out across Oklahoma. Along those thirteen miles are three small towns: Galena, Riverton, and Baxter Springs.
Galena was a small town, only about three thousand residents. It had staked its claim on the Route by restoring a Kan-O-Tex service station, putting vintage cars on display—including the kind used in that Disney movie—commissioning a mural, and adding historic markers at interesting points along the way, like the park we were currently enjoying.
“Brogan,” she said, gently, coaxing. “Sit. We’re fine.”
I gave in and pushed off of the post, then dropped down next to her.
“It wasn’t a dream,” I said.
“I know. You would have had to have gotten some sleep for it to be a dream.”
